Not here. In Tel Aviv. There is a man who wishes to speak to you”
“Who”
“I can’t give you his name. Not yet. But what he has to say is critical.
Believe me”
“I do” McGarvey said.
The uncertain dawn came cool and gray. Lorraine Abbott stood at the window of her secondfloor room looking down at the driveway. She was in East Germany, near a lake. She knew at least that much, as well as the fact that something had happened overnight.
Something that was causing her Russian captors some consternation. It was Kirk, she thought, and the certainty gave her a small measure of comfort. A black Mercedes sedan had pulled up and two bulky men had gotten out. They were standing below now speaking with the short, heavily built man who had identified himself as Baranov. From what she could gauge of their actions, they seemed to be happy. They had received some good news, and her spirits sank again. She turned away from the window. Her room was large and extremely well furnished, with a spacious, pleasant bathroom. Since her kidnapping and hasty trip across the border in the trunk of a car, she had been forced to remain here.
She had not been mistreated; her meals came regularly and were very good. But she had not been given a radio or television, nor had she been allowed any reading material. Most of the time she had spent with her ear to the wall or door, listening to what was going on in the rest of the house, or watching from the window. Baranov had spoken to her only once, when they had first brought her here. He had merely introduced himself and promised that no harm would come to her. But in that brief exchange she had been struck with the man’s charisma. He exuded a raw, but controlled, power. His eyes, she had decided, had the capability of looking inside of her. The experience had been chilling. In the bathroom she splashed some cold water on her face, and then looked into her own eyes. They were clear, although she was frightened. Eventually they would have to let her go. Eventually they would have to take her back to West Berlin. Her major fear at the moment was that her release wouldn’t come soon enough to stop Kirk from coming here first.
Now that she had met Baranov, and seen something of his tion-she had spotted at least three guards outside organiza — she didn’t think Kirk would have much of a chance against them.
Back at the window, she looked down at the driveway. The Mercedes was still there, but the men were nowhere in sight. She was craning her head to see toward the side of the house when the lock at her door clicked.
She turned as the door opened and Baranov entered the room, a gentle, almost wistful smile on his features, wrinkling the corners of his deep-set eyes. She thought he looked like the typical picture of a Russian peasant. Except for his power, which no peasant had. “Good morning, Dr. Abbott, I’m happy to see that you’re up. It’s us early risers who do best in the world, don’t you agree”
Baranov’s voice was soft and cultured, his English gently British in its intonations. “When are you going to release me” Lorraine demanded.
“Very soon now” Baranov said. “Your breakfast should be up in a minute or so. I thought I’d take this time to have a little chat with you. It seems a friend of ours will be showing up here soon” Lorraine’s blood ran cold. “Who is that” she managed to ask, though her voice sounded shaky in her own ears. “Kirk McGarvey, of course. He and I are very old friends. We go way back together. But of course I’m sure he told you this”
“How do you know he’s coming here”
“Oh, dear lady, I have my sources” Baranov chuckled. “You can’t imagine”
“What do you want” she Suddenly cried. “Why are you doing this now”
Baranov’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean byhis’? “Now’”
“You know damned well what I’m talking about. Whatever little plan your killer, Arkady Kurshin, was supposed to carry out backfired on you. Kirk stopped him. Now there’s nothing left”
Baranov’s jaw was tight. Lorraine thought she could almost hear or feel a thrumming vibration coming from him; as if a low-pitched string had been plucked within his body, or as if he were a high-tension line. For just that moment she felt as if she were very close to death. She backed up against the curtains. “What did he tell you in your little West Berlin love riest, dear lady” Baranov asked, his voice controlled. He advanced a pace. “What little secrets did he whisper into your ear at the moment of consummation”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about”
“I think you do” Baranov said, advancing another pace toward her. “And do you know what? You’re going to talk to me this morning. You’re going to tell me simply everything that you know” He took another pace forward. At that moment Lorraine stepped away from the window, all of her weight on her left foot as she kicked out with every ounce of her strength with her right, the toe of her low-heeled shoe connecting solidly with Baranov’s groin. The man didn’t even flinch. He reached out slowly, took a handful of her hair, and, as if he were gently leading a horse by its mane, led her across the room where, with his free hand, he slapped her face, knocking her nearly unconscious down on the bed.
The morning was very bright, heat shimmering up from the tarmac as McGarvey and Potok hobbled down the Sea Dragon’s aft loading ramp.
They had not said much to each other on the three-hundred mile flight from the Worden. Potok had laid his head back and had closed his eyes.
He was on the verge of collapse. “Just one more thing to do” he’d said.
McGarvey let his thoughts drift back and forth between Lorraine Abbott and John Trotter. It wasn’t finished, of course, and would not be until Baranov was destroyed. He’d known that all along. He’d known it most acutely the moment he had seen the look of triumph in Kurshin’s eyes.
He’d thought he had won. There would be others like him, other handmaidens to Baranov. Sooner or later they would succeed.
He was filled with fear now; Baranov had become his worst nightmare, and Lorraine Abbott his greatest challenge. He had thought of both of them as Kurshin died. But he was an assassin. He would give Baranov death, or die trying. What could he give to Lorraine? He had nothing. Men such as he never did. They had landed on the military side of Lod Airport. A fuel truck lumbered across the taxiway, toward the helicopter, at the same moment an army jeep raced over from the AMAN Headquarters building a half-mile away. Potok’s number two, Abraham Liebowitz, was driving. He pulled up at the base of the ramp, jumped out, and hurried around to them. He said something in Hebrew. “In English” Potok said, straightening up. Liebowitz glanced at McGarvey. “He’s waiting for us.
If you want, I can take care of everything. You should be in the hospital” Potok shook his head. “No” he said. “We owe this man, Abraham.
I’ll see it through” He helped Potok into the front seat, and McGarvey climbed in the back as Liebowitz got behind the wheel. He turned around.
“We have a plane standing by for you, Mr. McGarvey. As soon as we’re finished here you’ll be flown directly to Athens. In the meantime, is there anything I can get for you, or arrange”
” No” McGarvey said. He was very tired, and it was difficult at this moment to keep his thoughts straight. But as they drove back across the field toward the collection of low cement-block buildings, he knew that what he had done hadn’t been for Israel. It had been for himself. In fact, he thought, turning that notion over in his mind, everything he had ever done had been for himself. Some inner need to prove himself, over and over again. To prove his strength, his virility, his loyalty, his honor. And again he was struck with the idea that there wasn’t very much difference between himself and men such as Kurshin, other than their place of birth.
Someone had asked him once if he was proud of what he had done for his country. He had wanted to immediately say Yes, of course I’m proud. But something had stayed him. He hadn’t known the answer to that question then, and he didn’t know it now.
They pulled up at the rear of one of the three-story buildings and inside took the elevator up to the top floor, where Liebowitz ushered them into a small conference room. A very short man, with longish white hair and hunched shoulders, stood looking out the window toward the U.S. Navy helicopter that had brought them in. He wore a shapeless dark suit, the collar of his white shirt on the outside of his jacket. When he turned around McGarvey was struck by the knowledge, understanding, and sympathy in the man’s eyes. If there were an opposite of Baranov, this
